HIS BROKEN SAINT

CHAPTER 6: MEASUREMENT

The boxes arrived at 3:45pm.

Twelve of them. Black. No logos. Just Damien’s monogram stamped on the tape in silver. Elias stood in his room watching the staff carry them in. One by one. Silent. Efficient. Like they were delivering coffins.

“Where should we put them, sir?” the head housekeeper asked him.

Elias flinched at “sir”. That was Damien’s word now. Rule 8. “Just… on the bed,” he mumbled.

They obeyed. Twelve boxes. Suits. Shirts. Shoes. Everything folded, tagged, perfect. Nothing cheap. Nothing from Embakasi market. Everything expensive enough to choke him.

When the door closed, Elias didn’t move for 5 minutes. Then he opened the first box.

Black suit. Tailored. The jacket alone cost more than Dad’s truck. He lifted it. Heavy fabric. Perfect stitching. A note pinned inside: _Fitting. 4pm. Downstairs. -D_

4pm. Now.

Elias changed. Slow. The shirt was cotton so soft it felt wrong. The pants fit like they’d been measured to his bones. Because they had. He stared at the mirror. Same face. Same scar on his lip. But the boy in the mirror didn’t look like the one who slept on a mattress in Embakasi anymore.

He looked like he belonged to someone.

Damien was waiting in the living room when he came down. Same leather chair. Same black coffee. But his eyes were different today. Sharper.

Elias stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Sir.” Rule 8. He hated how easy it got.

Damien didn’t answer. He just looked. Head to toe. Slow. Like the tailor did this morning, but worse. This was personal.

“Turn,” Damien said.

Elias turned. Felt his face burn. Felt stupid for feeling anything.

“Again.”

Elias turned back. The jacket pulled slightly at the shoulders. Not much. But Damien noticed.

He stood. Walked over. The tailor from this morning was still here. Three of them. Waiting with pins and tape.

Damien stopped right in front of Elias. Close. Too close. “The shoulders are off,” he said to the tailor. Not to Elias.

One tailor stepped forward. Tape measure in hand. “Sir, if I may—”

His hand reached for Elias’s waist. To adjust the jacket.

Damien moved faster than Elias could track.

His hand caught the tailor’s wrist mid-air. Grip tight. The silver ring on Damien’s middle finger pressed into skin. The one with 3 missing fingers on his other hand didn’t move. Didn’t have to.

“Hands off,” Damien said. Quiet. Deadly.

The room froze. The other two tailors stopped breathing.

The tailor stammered. “Sir, I was only—”

“I saw what you were doing,” Damien cut him. Still holding the wrist. “You touched him.”

“Sir, it’s procedure. For the fit—”

Damien released him. Shoved his hand back. “Procedure ends when he says it does. And he doesn’t say it. I do.”

Elias stood there. Chest tight. Rule 9 echoed: _You don’t touch anyone without permission. No one except me._

He wasn’t sure if he wanted Damien to stop the tailor. Or if he wanted the tailor to keep going just to make Damien angrier.

Damien turned to him. Eyes dark. “Take the jacket off.”

Elias obeyed. Rule 3: ask before leaving property. But not before taking clothes off in his own house. He slid the jacket down. Shirt clung to his ribs.

Damien took the jacket from him. Didn’t give it back to the tailor. He held it. Then he stepped behind Elias.

For a second Elias thought Damien would measure him himself. Rule 7: sleep where I can hear you breathe. Rule 9: no one touches except me. It would make sense.

Instead Damien held the jacket up. “Pins,” he said.

One tailor rushed forward with pins. Trembling.

Damien pinned the shoulders himself. Two fingers working, careful, precise. The 3 missing fingers on his left hand didn’t get in the way. He’d learned to work around it. Around everything.

His knuckles brushed Elias’s collarbone as he pinned. Once. Twice. Not accidental. Not innocent.

Elias’s breath caught. He stared straight ahead at the mirror on the wall. Saw Damien behind him. Saw the way Damien’s eyes tracked every inch of skin the shirt revealed.

“Stand still,” Damien murmured. Only Elias heard. “Mine.”

First time he used it outside Rule 10. Not a command. A name. Dropped low so only Elias caught it.

Elias’s knees almost buckled. “Sir,” he whispered. Not because of Rule 8. Because he didn’t know what else to say.

Damien finished pinning. Stepped back. “Done.”

The tailors packed up fast. Too fast. Money transferred before they hit the door. They weren’t paid to stay when Damien used that voice.

Then it was just them again. Silence. The jacket still in Damien’s hands.

“Why did you stop him?” Elias asked. Quiet. Dangerous question. Rule 6: tell the truth. Always.

Damien looked at the jacket. At the pins. “Rule 9.”

“That’s not— he wasn’t hurting me.”

“No,” Damien agreed. He set the jacket down on the chair. Careful. Like it mattered. “But he touched you. And for 365 days, Mine, that’s my right only.”

Elias’s head snapped up. “I’m not property.”

“Contract says otherwise,” Damien said. No cruelty. Just fact. “One year. Your choices, your body, your time. All mine.”

Elias walked to the window. Put distance between them. “You say ‘mine’ like you believe it.”

“I do believe it,” Damien said behind him. “I believe it more than I believe in God. More than I believe Dad saved me out of kindness twelve years ago.”

Elias turned. “What did you say?”

Damien’s jaw ticked. He’d said too much. Rule 6 worked both ways. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Elias said. Then froze. He’d cursed. In Damien’s house. To Damien.

Damien should’ve punished him. Should’ve snapped. Instead he just looked tired. For half a second.

“Rule 3,” Damien said instead. Voice rough. “You ask before leaving this property.”

“I’m not leaving,” Elias said. Arms crossed. Defensive. The tailored shirt made him feel exposed.

“Good.” Damien picked up the jacket again. Held it out. “Put this back on.”

Elias didn’t move. “Why? The tailors are gone.”

“Because I want to see it on you,” Damien said. Honest. Too honest. “Because for 12 years I’ve bought suits for ghosts. For men who died owing me. For Dad’s memory. I want to see it on someone who’s still breathing.”

Elias took the jacket. Slid it on. The pins poked his shoulders slightly. Damien’s fingers were the last thing that touched this fabric.

Damien watched him. No words. Just watching.

Then: “Dinner’s at 6. Rule 1. Downstairs. Don’t be late, Mine.”

Elias nodded. Turned to leave.

“Elias,” Damien said.

He stopped. “Sir?”

Damien’s eyes were on the pins. On his shoulders. “Rule 7. Your room’s across the hall. If the pins hurt, if the jacket’s too heavy… you come to me. Not the staff. Me.”

Elias didn’t answer. He left. Door closed behind him.

Upstairs, he stood in front of the mirror again. Jacket on. Pins in. Damien’s hands still ghosting over his collarbone.

He touched the spot. Felt nothing. But his skin remembered.

A knock. Soft. 3 times.

Elias froze. 6pm. Dinner. Rule 1. He wasn’t late yet.

“Elias,” Damien’s voice came through the door. Low. No “Sir” required. “Open.”

Elias’s hand shook on the jacket button. Rule 3: ask before leaving. But he hadn’t asked to open the door.

He opened it anyway.

Damien stood in the hall. No coffee. No suit jacket. Just black shirt, sleeves rolled up. The 3 missing fingers visible. He held something in his right hand. The silver ring catching light.

Not a plate. Not a command.

A key.

Damien held it out. “Your room,” he said. “Has a lock. From the outside.”

Elias stared at it. “What?”

Damien’s eyes didn’t blink. “Rule 7. I said you sleep where I can hear you breathe. I didn’t say you could leave.”

He dropped the key into Elias’s palm. Cold metal. Then closed Elias’s fingers over it.

“Lock it tonight, MINE" Damien murmured. Thumb brushed Elias’s knuckles once. “Or don’t. Your choice. But either way… I’m across the hall. And I’m listening.”

He turned. Walked away. No footsteps. Just silence.

Elias stood in the doorway. Key in his fist. Jacket weighing on his shoulders. 12 boxes of clothes behind him. 10 rules in his head.

And down the hall, Damien’s door clicked shut. Locked from the outside.

Elias looked at the key. Then at his own door. No lock on the inside.

He had 363 days left. And tonight, he wouldn’t be choosing if he stayed.